


Come To Life

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [42]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demons, Hunting, M/M, Minor Injuries, Plot Advancement Playhouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come To Life

XLII.

‘You’re fucking kidding me.’ Dean stares at the screen of Sam’s laptop, then up at his brother, then back at the laptop.

Sam shakes his head. ‘Not even a little.’

‘A mud monster.’ Dean pinches at the bridge of his nose. ‘What the hell, Sammy.’

Sam rolls his eyes and swings his computer back around. ‘Okay, okay -- I still think it’s worth checking out.’

‘Some kid who fell in a mudpit and decided to take a photo of himself is “worth checking out”?’ 

Castiel leans past Sam’s shoulder and studies the blurry newspaper photograph. ‘It does not look like a child.’

Dean glares at him. ‘Don’t you start.’

Sam sighs and closes the laptop. ‘Look, Dean, do you have any better ideas? It’s only a couple miles down the road. We might as well check it out.’

* * *

‘I can’t believe I got talked into this,’ Dean mutters loudly, shifting position on the tarp spread on the muddy ground. It rustles under his weight and he stops.

It had been the blood that convinced them the stake-out was worthwhile. A mud monster might be some teenager’s idea of a good Halloween prank, but even the most dedicated scare-monger was unlikely to go to the extent of showering blood across the mudpit.

Sam is already set up on the opposite side of the mudhole which is larger in real life than it had looked in the photograph. Dean can just about make him out as a steady darker patch under the pine trees; in a few more minutes when the sun is all the way down, they'll be invisible to each other.

‘At least it is not cold,’ Castiel says philosophically and sets off towards his own chosen spot, about halfway between the brothers: a few dozen yards from Dean, a little closer to Sam. The only curve of the mudhole they can't directly cover between them is a ragged stone wall -- what looks like the remains of a rubbish load of gravel and broken stone.

Dean snorts but makes no other reply.

* * *

Dean is lost in a daydream, his thumb rubbing random patterns on the butt of the shotgun, when the mudpit begins to boil. It burbles and bubbles to itself for several minutes in near silence, looking strangely like a pot of boiling soup. Sticks, leaves and pine needles bob on the surface.

It takes a loud _brrrrrrappp_ of mud cascading into the air to wake Dean and he stares for a minute before his brain catches up with what he’s looking at: mud spiraling into the air under a bright, nearly-full moon and forming a grotesque figure. ‘Jesus...Christ....’ 

He scrambles to his feet and looks around vainly for something making this _happen_ \-- someone casting a spell or doing a dance or strangling a chicken, for fuck’s sake -- but there’s no-one.

The figure coalesces, solidifies, and Dean takes aim, but holds the shot, staring at the thing, trying to figure out what the hell makes for a vulnerable spot on a giant made out of mud.

Then the thing _looks_ at him -- it fucking _looks_ at him and it has _eyes_ : bright black eyes like two stars in reverse and Dean’s hands freeze in place.

But it turns away, looks away from him, and he can breathe again.

‘Little angel.’ The thing has a _voice_ \-- if grinding rocks and wet earth have voices. ‘Little. Vengeful. Angel.’

 _What the fuck--_ Dean doesn’t even have time to complete the thought before the thing moves and for something made out of mud, it is fucking _fast._ It has Castiel caught up in a paw-like hand and seems to be staring at him. 

_‘Little_ angel.’ The voice booms and rolls around the clearing. ‘Did you think a simple trap would hold us?’

Dean can’t hear Cas say anything back and it takes him a minute of frantic squinting in the bright moonlight to realise that the thing has mud plastered over Castiel’s mouth. 

‘Little angel -- did you think we wanted to _hurt_ you?’ The thing shakes the mammoth lump that serves it for a head and Castiel is dropped, straight to the ground as a child would drop a toy that it has no more use for. 

Dean hears the crack and sees the flash of light on the far side of the swampy ground and would swear he sees Sam’s bullet tear through the mucky earth of the thing’s shoulder, but it doesn’t seem to notice. He tries himself, taking what he _knows_ is a good shot on the giant’s ear -- but his shot only carries away a branch and the thing doesn’t even pause.

And the thing’s reaching down for Castiel again and fucked if Dean is going to let _that_ happen and he takes off at a run, forgetting the flashlight he had carefully put down on the tarp, forgetting the charms, forgetting the other gun.

But he’s too late -- Castiel’s coat is on the damp, mucky grass, and the thing has him lifted again, holding him in both hands this time in a strange parody of care.

‘Little angel. Did you not think that over millennia we would learn to break your work? Devil’s traps!’ The thing throws back its head and _laughs_ and Dean wants to cover his ears and find something heavy to hide behind. 

Sam fires again and Dean sees a clod of earth carried away off the thing’s shoulder. Christ, what the hell do you do to kill something made of mud? 

‘The simplest things in the world, little angel.’

Lumps of mud cascade at Dean’s feet and he realises Cas is digging at the thing with his hands, digging a tunnel in the thing’s throat. 

Dean turns and cups his hands around his mouth. ‘Sam! Shovel!’ He hears a thump and running feet. How long can it take Sam to reach the car? A couple minutes maybe, top speed? Then open the trunk, get the shovel, get back--

He takes aim with the shotgun and blasts a hole in the thing’s knee -- but the mud simply oozes back again, filling the hole within seconds. The giant doesn’t even stagger. _Shit._

‘Little angel.’ The thing’s voice sounds almost _fond_ and then Cas is on the ground at Dean’s feet again, stunned and bloody.

Dean crouches over him, clawing the mud off his mouth. It leaves a dark stain on Castiel’s pale skin and Castiel gasps in breath. ‘Cas, you okay?’

‘I have...been better, Dean.’ Castiel pushes himself up with a pained grunt and looks at the thing towering above them. 

Dean supports Cas as best he can, pulling the angel up so he can rest against Dean’s bent knee. ‘What the hell is it? What do I do? How do we kill it?’

‘Oh, _Dean.’_

Dean jerks up, looking up at the thing, his hand freezing on Castiel’s arm.

‘You can’t kill us -- you and your half-blood brother already tried.’ The voice is high, sweet, piercing, mocking. Oriana.

‘Jesus...’ Dean scrambles back before he can think, the instinct for self-protection momentarily overwhelming everything else.

‘Little angel -- all we needed was your _voice.’_

‘I have it back now.’ Castiel is on his feet, swaying slightly but standing, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

‘Not for long, _little_ angel.’ The grind and roar of the mud-man’s voice is back and it reaches for Castiel, grabs him around the chest-- and Dean is on his feet, throwing his weight around Castiel’s legs as the thing tries to lift him off the ground.

‘Little angel -- did you think it would be so easy to protect your human pet?’ The voice is deriding, and Dean can hear Castiel saying something in reply, but he’s too worried about keeping his feet on the ground to think about it. 

Dean closes his eyes, tries to pretend that he has roots, and digs his boots into the soft earth, using every ounce of muscle at his disposal to yank Cas _back_ to the ground. 

And suddenly there’s nothing to brace against and he’s got Castiel’s full weight crashing down on top of him and they’re both on the ground, Dean winded, and Castiel silent. Dean scrambles out from under Castiel, pulling the smaller man behind him, making himself a barrier between the angel and the mud-demon. ‘You’re not fucking getting him.’

‘Winchester.’ A mockery of Alastair’s voice now. ‘Such a _slow_ learner -- but so promising!’

‘Fuck you!’

‘I think I did --’

Sam drops to his knees beside them, the shovel landing with a thud on the grass. ‘What do I do!’

Castiel grabs his shirt, yanking him down. His voice is rougher even than usual. ‘Sever the neck. Destroy the _head.’_

Sam picks up the shovel and hurls the thing like a javelin, straight through the thing’s neck. The head drops to the ground like a rock and the rest of the body dissolves back into its component mud, showering them with muck and wet earth.

The head screams, showering abuse on them until Castiel crawls to it, picking it up. 

The angel starts to speak, something too low for Dean to hear. The head shrieks and Castiel cries out, dropping the thing.

‘Cas--’ Dean scrambles across to him and sees red welts rising on pale skin. ‘Oh, Jesus, Cas...’

The angel snarls something between his teeth and picks up the head again. Dean can see his shoulders tense and guesses that whatever caused the first lot of burns is still going. ‘Cas -- stop! You’re gonna--’

‘If _I_ stop,’ Castiel grits out between clenched teeth, _‘it_ will not. Be _quiet,_ Dean.’

Dean bites his lip hard, just about stops himself from protesting again, and stays where he is. 

The head shrieks and shrieks until it suddenly goes silent and Dean sees it drying, cracking, breaking between Castiel’s fingers and then there’s nothing but dust. Castiel spreads his hands, letting the dried mud cascade off his palms onto the earth. 

‘Is that it?’ Dean asks.

Castiel nods, turning his hands palm-up in the moonlight and examining them thoughtfully. Dean peers over his shoulder and groans. Castiel’s hands look like he’s been holding them against a hot grill. 

‘I can heal... some of this.’ Castiel touches his left palm briefly with his right, then his right with his left, and the marks are diminished, but not gone. 

Dean grits his teeth and gets to his feet. ‘C’mon, Cas. We can do better than that.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "What Lies Beneath," Breaking Benjamin, _Dear Agony._


End file.
